In Quest of Teleny
John Templar

     I was too young to serve in the war and reached my eighteenth birthday on VE day itself. The papers were full of pictures of soldiers, sailors and airmen dancing in the streets of London, standing atop buses or cars, kissing young  women on red-lipsticked mouths. God, how I longed to be one of those lucky tarts! Or one of those priapic young males in uniform, preferably the tight bellbottoms of the navy, or the dusty blue-grey of the RAF. No doubt, if I had gone to a Public School I would have had a choice of cadet corps and all the attendant male-bonding, but my provincial Grammar offered nothing more than dreary mock drills and furtive feels in the outdoor urinals.

True, I actually got to bed with my best friend Andrew, if you can so describe our inept, pantsdown experiments beneath my quilted eiderdown, fearful always of interruption by my father, who had been invalided out of the army and hung around the house all day, drinking Scotch and mourning my mother's untimely death from some woman's complaint. Even as we attempted buggery, Andrew's ever eager cock pressing against my virgin but ever ready hole, we held books in our hands as a potential excuse.

Andrew never really succeeded in buggering me, surrendering all his hot young  forces instantly if his invading thrust pierced my undefended lines by so much as half an inch. So it happened that, in time, I actually began to read the books.
To be fair, he had, from a soldier brother, acquired a small stock of little green paperbacks, published in Paris, of varying degrees of eroticism. Most had too much to do with women, who interested me not at all, but one - one penetrated my young brain and my young soul more profoundly than its owner had ever penetrated my young arse.

" Teleny or The Other Side of the Coin", purported to be by Oscar Wilde, but it had none of the effete, covert perversity of his popular works, but instead told a raw, thrilling tale of hard male members fondled through trouser legs in darkening public parks, of clubs where gentlemen watched young workmen in lewd dances.These and other images of a lascivious, all-male underworld  burned themselves into my imagination and fuelled my fevered fantasies.

But it was the mysterious figure of the title who really possessed my mind: Teleny, tall, hard-bodied, forceful, perverse, living only for the satisfaction of his lusts, living only, in fact, to fuck.

Reading one page one day, I threw caution and the eiderdown aside and vigorously sucked and spittled Andrew's astonished cock, before thrusting my bum back on to it so forcefully that I almost bent it double.

"The Rubicon was crossed; the column began to slide softly in; he could begin his pleasurable work..."

That was Teleny - Andrew just yelped in pain, shot out of bed
 and scrambled into his clothes. He never came to my bedroom again and even found himself a girlfriend shortly  afterwards.

I didn't care. Snatching up his dirty books in haste, he had left Teleny in my hot young hand, and a burning hunger in my cheated hot young arse.

I knew that Teleny was fictitious and that, even if he had been real, he would be long dead, but I knew too that I would one day find my own pre-destined master and cocklord and I  knew I would find him in Hyde Park.

My handsome, stricken, fuddled father resisted all my pleas to visit warfront London until, at last, came VE day when lights came up all over the capital and he thought it would be safe to send me to stay with Uncle Jack in Pimlico.
Jack was my mother's brother and I had seen him only once in my life, at her funeral, a splendidly uniformed captain in the Fleet Air Arm.

Out, I suppose, of a sense of duty, he agreed to put me up for a few weeks in his batchelor flat in London. His real home was a manor house in Wiltshire, but - then - that held no attraction for me.

Jack met me at Euston and drove me through streets I knew by heart, though I had never seen them before: Tottenham Court Road, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly. I was excited to see that there were still many men in uniform. I wanted every one of them. I even wanted Uncle Jack, his manly profile set in boredom as he tried to make small talk with his importunate  young nephew. But first I wanted Teleny.

Jack showed me the small spare bedroom in his flat. Gruffly, he offered to take me for a meal in a Lyons Corner House and was visibly relieved when I said I was stuffed full with sandwiches and only wanted to walk around and explore the city. He gave me a set of keys and a folding street map and went off, he said, to his club.

Left alone, I stripped naked, washed all over and then put on a clean pair of white briefs, a pale blue shirt and - my masterstroke - my old school tie and a pair of light grey long school trousers. These were two years old and at least two sizes too small but a long appraisal in a full length mirror confirmed that they fitted my young body like a second skin. My cock bulged obscenely through the thin grey flannel. I resisted the urge to pull it out right then and wank myself dry all over my own sexy reflection. But I hadn't saved up a whole week's spunk for one lone wank. I pulled on grey socks, laced up my shiny new black shoes and went out into the world.  

It was a late Summer evening and unlit Oxford Street had just a few weary stragglers walking home or waiting for a bus. A skinny young sailor did a double-take at the sight of my straining trousers and a backward glance saw him gazing after me, open mouthed. "Any other time, sailor..." 
I crossed the road, passing the wood-encased triunphal arch. Then I was through the gateway and into the park.

It was just as I'd imagined it so many times, lying in my lonely bed with the book gripped tightly in one hand and my only other consolation in the other.   I'd even   smelled the great oaks and plane trees.

Yes, there were people - men, wandering apparently aimlessly along the shaded paths. Some sat on benches, alone or in pairs. On the darker benches, under the oaks, sat  little huddles of men, engaged in what might pass as intimate conversation. I resisted the temptation to explore and walked boldly down the broad main path. A city gent in a bowler hat strolled past, stealing a longing glance at my  crotch; a husky red-haired labourer, clutching a toolbag in his hand and hefting another inside his pants; a nervous young, suited office worker, wedding ring gleaming as he brushed back his brylcreemed hair; two sailors, arms round each others shoulders, openly fingering their tight bell-bottom drop-flys and flicking lascivious tongues as they passed. What is it about sailors? Any other time, I would have been only too happy to service those bulges and plug those lewd male mouths, but this evening - this night...

It was then I saw him.

Walking slowly but purposefully towards me was a tall figure, effortlessly lithe and graceful despite broad-muscled shoulders that stretched his well-tailored tunic and huge thighs moulded by skin-tight riding breeches . I didn't then recognise it as the uniform of a senior officer in the Household Cavalry  but it was the sexiest uniform of all those I had seen in a long war, especially with the gleaming leather riding boots he flicked so casually with a riding crop as he walked. He was apparently deep in conversation with another soldier, not an officer, who gazed up at him with devotion in his young brown eyes. I was close enough by now to see such detail, but the handsome young soldier got no more than a passing glance from me.

  My eyes were riveted on the noble head of the officer. I had seen such heads in pictures of the marble statues of Greek gods, but this was flesh and blood. And its sculptor had discovered something of the devil in its godlike beauty. Black brows overhung deep, long-lashed eyes which looked as dark as night but gleamed like polished jet as they met - and held - my own. A long, aristocratic nose with fine, flared nostrils seemed almost to be scenting the sex-laden evening air. A thin black moustache accentuated the sardonic twist of a shapely upper lip. The lower lip was full and sensuous, suggesting unbridled self-indulgence. The deep-cleft chin and high strong cheekbones completed the portrait of a man in control of all in his world except his own carnal appetites.

All this I saw, or sensed, in one short, endless glance on that darkening path.
I could hardly breathe as I turned to gaze after the broad departing back. He had not even deigned to turn his head as we passed, still less to look back at the young blond boy as abjectly smitten with lust as the skinny sailor I had so casually spurned in Oxford Street only moments before.

I felt as if a giant fist had slammed into my belly or a giant hand had wrenched out my guts. I had seen Teleny and been rejected by him and now, no man and no number of men would ever be able to assuage my hunger, however hard and often they penetrated and possessed my body. This man had taken my soul.
I stood and watched as he walked away into the dusk, still absorbed in converstion with his companion, my existence noticed and dismissed by those godlike, devilish eyes. For ever.

And then.

And then they stopped, at a crossing in the path.
My pent-up breath escaped me like a sigh.
He stood beneath an oak tree, still not turning back towards me, but sideways, facing the entrance to a dark side path, waiting.
Again I held my breath as I walked towards him. The huge park seemed silent, the only sound the urgent beating of my heart and the soft, sharp, rhythmic tapping of a riding crop on a leather boot. His face was in shadow as I approached and my eager eyes feasted instead on his manly body and, hungrily, on the long thick swelling on the inside of one tight-breeched thigh. I groaned audibly as my own long-suffering member threatened to burst through the front of my pants like a drunk through a saloon door. I was rewarded by a brief, mocking laugh before he moved again, this time towards and into the dark side path. His companion went with him - an attendant shadow that I barely noticed as I followed HIM.

I don't know how long we walked, past shrubberies alive with male whisperings and moans and the clunk of metal belt-buckles being loosed, before my leader turned left into a grove of trees.

There he stopped and turned at last to face me, his back to the trunk of a mighty oak. My legs were weak and trembling  but I resisted the urge to fall to my knees before him and, instead, hurled myself at him with an anguished groan. He caught me deftly in his strong arms and laughed again as he gripped my blond hair, holding my head back to examine my burning, begging boyface. Then his mouth descended to take mine like an eagle swooping on its prey or Zeus on Ganymede. His tongue delved deep inside my mouth - an upper hard male member possessing my upper fuckhole - but even as I gloried in that rape, he pulled me against him and my body touched for the first time the long, pulsing hardness of his sex.

He gripped my buttocks, grinding my aching sexmound into his. I knew that my pants, now drenched in hot young precum, would be sliming the swelling thigh of his immaculate breeches, but, uncaring, I humped it like the untrained puppy that I was and was rewarded when I felt a groan of pleasure rise deep in his manly throat and pass through our close-joined mouths into my very soul. As if in punishment, he brought the riding crop down hard on my buttocks in one stinging blow. I had never in my life sought pleasure through pain, but at that moment he could have thrashed my arse red raw.

Instead, his hands moved upwards, empty now. I realised later that the crop had been been taken by the young soldier who  hovered discreetly nearby, keeping a lookout and attending, when required, to his officer's comfort and convenience.
My new and ultimate master caressed my back, inspecting and exploring my body through my thin shirt. His hands rested on my shoulders for a moment, then moved down my upper arms and onto my heaving chest. His fingers found and fondled my soft young nipples, which hardened to his touch. Breathing an ecstatic sigh, I looked up to see a mocking, almost gentle smile on those curving lips, but even as I responded, his fingers gripped and savagely squeezed my tender tits, causing me to groan out loud. At that, the riding crop descended once again on the upper slopes of my poor sore bum. How? A startled sideways glance showed me that the officer's batman was now wielding the wicked little horsewhip to a nodded signal from our master.

I struggled to learn the rules that would henceforth govern my existence, not yet realising they were entirely at the whim of my cruel God. For now, I guessed that I was expected to stay silent, even in sudden pain. This surmise was tested when another vicious whipcut was accompanied by a vice-like squeeze and twist of my  tits. My silent exhalation was rewarded with a broadened smile and a deep, mouth-fucking tongue-kiss. I knew I had passed one test, but also that there would be many more to come. As my master's strong hands ripped open the buttons of my shirt and touched my naked skin for the first time, I knew too that I would welcome and endure them all.

His touch was light as a breath as his fingers wandered at will over my chest, my flat young belly, testing the span of my slender waist, stroking  the silken skin of my lean young back. As they slid downwards, I felt that another hand was tugging my shirt up out of my trousers. I had read that gentlemen of rank and wealth were dressed and undressed by their servants, but I had never imagined they would provide the same assistance in preparing and presenting the passive objects of their master's sexual attentions. It added a heady perversity to an experience already perverse beyond my wildest dreams.

 The guardsman's now hard, searching hands slid under my belt and down over my rounded cheeks, cotton-clad at first and then bare, as my briefs were ripped apart. I could hardly breathe, my face crushed against stiff braiding , but then I felt the batman's ubiqitous fingers sliding past my nose as he deftly undid his master's tunic. A brief whiff and taste of clean white linen and then the busy fingers bared a chest as massive, hard and hairy as my own was soft and smooth. I hardly needed the servant's guiding hand to push my head towards my master's nipple. Standing proud and hard, it demanded the worship of my soft young mouth. As I suckled contentedly on my first mantit, my master's fingers found and claimed my hole.

One finger first, up to the knuckle. Then two, stretching my tender boyring with exquisite pain for which my master's swelling nipple was a partial solace. I was glad, though that he stopped at two, until those two pushed upwards to their roots
 and their horny knuckles twisted inside my gut.

So we stood, for what seemed an eternity of bliss with my mouth suckworsipping first one, then the other of my lord's hard tits as he forced and fingerfucked my tight arsehole.

For me, we were alone in a universe of boundless lust. I was forced back to the scarcely less fantastic reality when the busy batman undid my belt and slowly pulled down my tight school trousers. A loud collective sigh made me aware for the first time that, far from being alone, we were surrounded by a rapt audience of men. A fuddled glance round showed me they were all there: the city gent, the Irish labourer, the married office clerk, the randy sailors and others I had never seen before, soldiers, airmen, civilians. It mattered not, they were all male, their cocks were all outside their trousers, in their hands, or others, or in other mens' mouths or arses. But, wanking or sucking or fucking, wanked sucked or fucked, they had eyes for one thing alone: the deliberate, ritual public sujugation of my helpless young body and the demonic claiming of my soul for sex.

The unveiling of my arse continued as my trousers were pulled down my thighs to rest above my knees. Now they could all see the long thick fingers delving in and out of my hole. Next they saw my flushed young face forced downwards to nuzzle at the hugely tented, bursting buttonfly of my master's tight white breeches. The batman's fingers did their habitual work and at last, oh God, at last, I saw and smelled the reason for my being. My past, my present, my future, my eternity.

My master's cock.

No words can convey its majesty: huge, rock-like, thick-veined, red, throbbing, all of those and more. A silken foreskin peeled lazily back from a plum-coloured, plum-like knob, bigger and more luscious than any real plum. A dense dark sweaty jungle of curling manhair, at once coarse and silky. Two giant balls, floating in a hanging wrinkled hairy spunksac. For one deranged moment I was reminded of the day when Andrew had challenged me to take a whole cricket ball in my mouth...

Was this still a man, or would I look down and see smooth tight-britched  thighs replaced by the coarse-matted legs of a satyr or the sweaty horse flanks of a centaur? No, this rearing, oozing horse-cock was still the male memember of a very male member of the Household Cavalry And it was my real, tangible, mansmelling non-mythological God.

It was what I was born to worship, but where was I to start?
I was reminded that I would never again in my life have to make such a choice as the open, secret, cum-glistening secret lips of my master's pisshole moved inexorably towards my face and my tongue reached out, unbidden, to touch and taste its Elysian nectar.

I was allowed to smell and savour for an endless moment before the mighty purple knob moved forward, parting and passing my soft boylips as it entered and took my mouth. A lifelong moment more and it pushed onward on its unstoppable, impossible invasion of my upper unfucked virgin cunt. No, no, no!
I was suffocating, gagging, dying. Yes, yes, yes!  My throat opened to service  my master's need with the same inborn instinct as my arse.

A hand gripped my hair - whose? I was past caring - and forced my head back and forward as my mouth was trained as a hungry, sucking public fuckhole. Another eternity of bliss and then a number of fierce, bucking, choking thrusts before a flood of hot sweet salty spunk jetted down my throat, swelled in my mouth and spilled like a milky cataract out of my mouth, over my chin, my neck, my tits, my cock...

My cock? In my frenzied worship of my master's mighty member, I had almost forgotten my own, but there it still was, jutting up between my bare young thighs and being serviced by a mouth as eager as my own. I realised dimly that the circle of watchers had pressed in close around us and the men were taking turns to touch or tongue or twist or bite any unattended part of my half-naked body. My cock, my tits, my arsehole were all being serially gripped and guzzled.

I became aware, pleasurably, of a man's hot tongue delving deep into my still-virgin hole, but even as I savoured the ineffable sweetness of my master's seed, I was stricken by the thought that now I would not receive it in that hole, made, shaped, kept, destined to be its vessel.

With my lord's cock still swollen in my mouth, my whorish arsehole almost welcomed the stranger's knob that nuzzled against it, seeking entry. No, no, he must not be first!

As if  hearing my unspoken prayer, my fellow, better-trained cockslave lashed out at the pressing manmob, wreaking havoc with the riding crop. The men fell back, cocks swinging lewdly. There was a pause and then, on and in my arsehole I felt a soft wet mouth and cleansing tongue that I knew could only belong to the devoted batman, reverently preparing a tabernacle for his master and our God.

The Godcock left my mouth and for a little while I was bereft, until I began to sense the new sacramental ritual that was beginning. The young batman took up position if front of me and pressed my head down to receive his standing cock. It was not my master's, but I served it willingly, grateful for his unfailing, guiding care, grateful now even for the stinging, searing corrective  pain he had inflicted on my tender skin.

An awed murmur from the now quiet watchers told me what I wanted to know. The batman leant over me to pull apart my cheeks. My master's knob touched my tongue-slicked virgin hole and then, with an obscene oath, took it in one mighty, driving thrust.

I have never before or since felt such pain. It was as if a burning tree-trunk had been thrust into my guts and set my young belly ablaze. Christ, would I live?
Could anyone survive such an outrage? Almost fainting with pain, I still knew, that, die or not, I had lived the one true moment I was born for.

He fucked me. Fucked and fucked and fucked. I sucked the batman's cock. The watchers wanked.

He fucked and fucked and fucked me. I cannot tell for how long; minutes, hours, days, forever? I had no sense of time. Only of cock and arse, of ecstasy and pain, of divine fulfilment and debasement.

He came inside me. A mighty roaring jet that spilled into my fiery, burning guts almost propelling me forward with its force. A few more grunting, swearing thrusts and it was over. The batman blessed my mouth as my master drew slowly from my arse.

I fell to the ground, almost insensible with pain and pleasure. I was aware that my spent God was standing over me.

The guardsman and his batman were discussing me in gruff, casual tones, with nuch obscene expletive and coarse, ribald laughter. My head was hauled off the ground and I was made to lick my master's boots clean of the sperm that had spilled over from my brimming hole. As I did so, I heard the scratch of matches as they lit cigarettes. The batman's boot nudged my head sideways towards a drop of jism that had escaped my searching tongue.

Just as I thought my divine degradation must surely be complete, they pissed on me. First my master, a horse-like torrent of hot, sweetsmelling piss. Then the batman, a smaller flow, but aimed at my burning bare backside, which he then began to thrash savagely with the riding-crop. I raised my head in supplication to my master and received his piss full force on my tearstained face and in my sobbing mouth.

Finished, they adjusted their dress as casually as if they had just used a public urinal and walked off. I heard my master's boots crunch on the gravel of the path and his parting words, fling carelessly over his shoulder.

         "You can use him now."

They needed no second bidding. I was used and abused in countless ways by countless unknown men.

Just as I thought it would go on forever,  a gruff voice said

            " 'Ello, 'ello, 'ello! What's going on here then? "

So it was that my Uncle jack, driving past Hyde Park on his way home, was starled to see his young nephew, near dead, being supported down the pavement by two strapping coppers.

            " Is he yours, sir? My, oh my! Your nephew up from the country? Well, you'll have to take more care of him than this. Constable Cocker and I found him in the park in a right old state. Must have wandered into Rotten Row and got run down by an 'orse! Nothing broken, though, just a bit roughed up, I think. Right as rain in the morning."

Whatever my uncle thought, he said nothing as he helped me into the back of the car. Then, back in the driving seat:

              "Been through the wars,old chap? Never mind! I've seen worse casualties. Thank the kind policemen, then I'll drive you home."

Dutifully, I muttered thanks and their parting winks were their thanks for my silence. In any case, would Uncle Jack ever believe they had both buggered me, front and back and force-fucked my poor bleeding arsehole with their truncheons, before leading the rutting manmob in a final frenzied mass wank over my ravaged body?

Whatever he knew or thought, Jack was discretion itself as he gently removed what remained of my stinking, sodden clothing. He ran a hot bath for me and made no comment as he sponged my grazed, bitten, raw-wealed skin. Tucked up in the soft warm guest bed, I slept at once and woke almost believing it had all been a dream, until I moved my aching limbs.

When I was well enough, Jack took me round London - everywhere except Hyde Park. After a few weeks, when I was fully healed and back to my old self, he suggested a trip to his house in Wiltshire:

              " A few days in the country, lad. Bring the colour back to your cheeks!"

The drive was idyllic, out of London into unspoiled countryside. As we crossed the county border, I felt immediately at ease amongst the ancient rolling hills. At last we turned into an almost hidden gateway, splendid wrought iron gates, between tall red brick piers. A toot on the horn brought a gatekeeper scurrying from the lodge. The old Riley hissed along a winding gravel drive. My heart leaped as the house came into view, a rambling accretion of wings of stone and brick round a friendly Jacobean core.

               " Yes, there's old Coverleigh, my boy. Never fails to make me smile. You'll love it here."

I knew at once I would. Uncle Jack went on, carelessly:

                  " Oh, by the way, old chap, I've invited a few people down.  Nothing formal, just a spot of hunting and fishing. A few old friends... there's one them now, coming back from the hunt."

He stopped the car and leaned across me to wind down the window as the horseman cantered lazily in our direction. As he drew closer, the blood drained from my face. That massive build, that arrogant posture, those tight-breeched thighs. As he came closer, I saw the unruly crown of glossy hair, the dark eyes, the thin-moustached, sardonic mouth. It was smiling at me evilly now as my Uncle said:

                  "Oh Freddy, you must meet my nephew Philip. Philip this is my dearest old friend, Freddy  - otherwise rather grandly known as Sir Frederick Destade.I know you two are going to be great friends."

The long silence was broken only by the rhythmic tapping of a riding crop on polished riding  boots...